"Rhonda, pst, Rhonda is that the Carrington girl? The writer who was at the bakery with that country singer Eddie Justice? I thought she was in Austin?" one of the old church ladies not-so-subtly asked the woman next to her.

I rolled my eyes and Clay looked at me with a mischievous grin. Slowly I stretched my arms over my head and leaned toward my brother, not so quietly whispering, "I can't wait to get out of church so I can go home and get some Eddie Justice man meat."

The old ladies gasped and started whispering. They didn't need to know that Eddie and I had only ever been next door neighbors and friends, well until we spent the night breaking a tree branch, if that counted for anything.

I wrinkled my nose, thinking of the way my t-shirt clung to me, drenched in sweat, and how I had to smell probably worse than I felt. “I’m going to hop in the shower first.”

“Want me to join you?” he asked.

“Um ...”

He stood up, grinning and slowly peeled his shirt off before tossing it on the couch.

I’d seen Eddie without his shirt plenty of times growing up and even more now on magazines. But seeing the newly ripped six-pack and those hipbones that dipped into his Levi’s, I was practically panting like a dog in heat.

“Do you expect me to whip my shirt off too like some girl in a music video? Because if I did that, I’d probably break something.”

The grin widened on Eddie’s face as he sauntered around the couch until he was right in front of me.

“Then I’ll take it off for you,” he whispered in a husky voice.

I gulped; doing the only thing left to do, I lifted my arms over my head.

He pulled my shirt off as if it wasn’t an old sweaty thing, and his eyes roamed over my now bare chest and stomach. I wasn’t exactly the most in-shape person and my wider hips and skinny waist were something I’d hated in high school. But as an adult, I definitely knew Eddie appreciated the curves when he bit his bottom lip before putting his hands on my hips.

He lifted me up as if I was as light as a feather, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, letting him carry me to the single bathroom.

Eddie let me go slowly, my tennis shoes hitting the tile floor. The bathroom wasn’t the smallest in the world, but it wasn’t huge either. At least the guy who owned the house before us updated it a bit with a stand-up tile shower and a glass door.

Before I could move to make sure I had clean towels and shampoo somewhere, Eddie’s lips were on mine, and his hands made quick work of the button and zipper of my jeans.

His kisses were hot and longing, letting me taste the sweet heat of his tongue as he licked and nibbled my bottom lip. His hands roaming over every part of me as soon as I was free of my clothes, turned me into a puddle of goo.

I was too turned on to even think about anything but the feel of Eddie’s lips on my body. It wasn’t until he whispered in my ear that I was knocked back to reality.

“Let’s get cleaned up.”

He pulled back slightly to turn on the water of the shower behind me. It sputtered before a steady stream sprayed.

My pants were down to my ankles, and I was still in my tennis shoes, watching Eddie strip out of his boots then his jeans and finally those black boxers.

I’d seen my fair share of naked men in all sizes and levels of hairiness, but seeing the sculpted body of Eddie Justice was enough to make me gulp and I had to hide my staring by quickly removing the rest of my clothes and shoes.

He reached behind me, cupping my ass before his lips were back on mine. Our bodies tumbled backward under the warm water as my hands claimed every part of him I could touch.

I broke the kiss briefly only to inhale a large stream of water and almost choke on it. I pounded on my chest and bent over slightly. Trying not to look at Eddie, I didn’t want him to see how much of an idiot I looked like.

“You okay?” he asked, putting his hand on my back.

“Yeah. Maybe getting frisky in the shower is better in theory than actual practice. I’ll let you shower first, and then I’ll get in,” I said, putting my hand on the door.

Eddie grabbed my arm and whirled me toward him. The water dripped down his face and over his kissable lips to his impeccable chest. “Why don’t you just sit down and let me wash you?”

I was almost too dumbfounded to speak and let him gently push me toward the shower seat.

He grabbed my body wash from the rack showerhead, poured some in his hand, and lathered it up. Slowly, he kneeled down, his hands massaging my arms then over my neck and each breast and nipple until they formed a soft peak and I moaned softly.

He kept moving his hand lower, sweeping over my stomach and then to my thighs. Working his way down my thighs and then back up, he placed his hand on my mound and hooked a finger inside me. I thought he would stop there, bringing my glorious agony to its peak and getting me off with his long fingers. But then just as quickly as his hand was inside me, his tongue replaced it. If I thought Eddie was a master at playing guitar or using his hand, I was way wrong. That magic tongue of his could do way more than belt out a Grammy-winning song.

I put one hand on the back of his head and the other on the glass wall of the shower. An orgasm took hold, and my entire body shook, the steady spraying stream of the water engulfing my scream. But the sound of the water didn’t mask the epic crash of the glass wall completely falling off the hinge and toppling sideways until it wedged between the window and the toilet seat across from the shower.

“Holy shit,” Eddie said after moving his mouth away from between my thighs only to lean back and hit his head on the shower valve. Which, of course, decided his head was big enough to knock that off the wall, and a big rush of water spewed out the hole where the valve had been.

Eddie scrambled to stand up and held his hand out, helping me out of the shower.

I didn’t even know where the towels were and if I even needed to be concerned with getting dry when the entire bathroom would be flooded soon.

“Want me to call my dad and see if he knows a plumber?” Eddie asked, yelling over the rushing water.

“Yeah. You call him, and I’ll call Clay.”

Magan Vernon has been living off of reader tears since she wrote her first short story in 2004. She now spends her time killing off fictional characters, pretending to plot while she really just watches Netflix, and she tries to do this all while her two young children run amok around her Texas ranch.